


the police are the public, and the public are the police

by wbtrashking (fan_nerd)



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Divergent AU, Gradual Relationship, M/M, rentboy au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-27
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2019-06-17 09:00:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15457827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fan_nerd/pseuds/wbtrashking
Summary: Lieutenant Hank Anderson is washed up. Broken down. Worse for the wear.On the second anniversary of his son's death, someone―something―comes knocking on his door, offering something of a consolation service. The android insists that he's there to please Hank at all costs, or he'll be decommissioned.Sleeping with Connor leads to one of the biggest busts of his career, but more importantly, it forces him to answer an important question. Could androids possibly feel emotions, just like humans?Hank isn't sure whether he's the right person to make that call.





	the police are the public, and the public are the police

**Author's Note:**

> dbh ruined my life
> 
> being completely honest, this story kinda crept on me. it’s more of an alternative styling of 2037/2038 with a few things changed here or there. the android revolution is less prevalent.
> 
> shoutouts to **[@bunnyforov](https://twitter.com/bunnyforov)** on twitter, my ride or die in hankcon heaven. luv u cece, mwah ♡
> 
> quote: _The police are the public and the public are the police; the police being only members of the public who are paid to give full time attention to duties which are incumbent on every citizen in the interests of community welfare and existence._ ―Sir Robert Peel, former British Prime Minister
> 
> without further ado, enjoy! ♡

**_October 11, 2037_**. _10:00 A.M._

 

Jeffrey Fowler walks into the office at ten o’clock, waving to his fellow officers on the way to his room. He takes a moment to glance at the androids standing stiffly against the back wall, waiting for instructions.

His eyes roam over to a familiar desk. When Jeffrey remembers what time of year it is, he shakes his head.

Gavin makes some offhand comment to Chris about what time the lieutenant might be stumbling in.

Though Chris is usually diplomatic, ignoring Gavin’s jibes, today, he won’t let that one slide. He gives the detective a look poisonous enough to shut him up.

There’s enough darkness in the DPD already. No need for everyone in the precinct to rip each other’s heads off.

Fowler is worried. He can admit that. He’s been worried for a long time now. Hank won’t be in today, he knows.

All he can hope is that his old friend returns to his desk tomorrow in one piece, spitting vitriol and venom, as always.

 

//

 

_**October 11, 2037.** 11:43 P.M._

 

“This day blows,” Hank murmurs.

The one thing he’s thankful for is that the day is almost over. It doesn’t make it hurt any less. He’s still alone with his thoughts, contemplating ending it all.

There’s no one around to miss him. What’s the harm, he figures?

It’s not true—at least, that’s what he tells himself, on the good days.

Today is the very definition of a bad one.

Hank pays his tab once he’s sloppy-drunk, messily texting the autocab service and sliding into the backseat once the fee has been taken from his bank account. The wonders of technology.

A pity that he’s too disenchanted with the progress of inventions to truly appreciate it.

Sumo licks Hank’s fingers and sniffs his ass until Hank swats the big, hairy furball off of him and wanders into his bedroom. He lies face-down on the mattress, exhaling deeply, barely repressing his tears.

His revolver is in the drawer. There’s one bullet loaded—he could end it this time, or play a game with himself and see if he loses. So far, his luck has been disastrously good.

Cole wouldn’t have wanted this for him. He wouldn’t have wanted to see his father this way. Maybe that’s what hurts the most; that Hank doesn’t have to put up a front for him. That he’s become a lowlife without someone to stay brave for.

Though he doesn’t remember dozing off, he’s startled awake by Sumo barking at the doorbell. He grumbles, patting his dog’s head as he pads to the door, wondering who in the fuck could want something with him tonight at—he glances at the TV, which is still on, and the readout on the news says that it’s two a.m.

“Hello,” a pristine voice greets from the door which Hank has cracked, “my name is Connor. An anonymous donor has sent me to service you this morning.”

It takes a minute for all the pieces to click in place. The blank expression, the soft brown eyes, the sharp jawline, the flattering, dangerously clingy getup. The blue LED light cycling lazily at the right side of the man’s—no, not a man; the _android’s_ —temple. Hank is no idiot.

“Who the _fuck_ sent me a sexbot,” Hank snarls, voice rough from alcohol consumption. “Get out of my house.”

“I am afraid that I cannot comply,” the android replies easily, prying the door open and standing inside like it’s been invited. “My orders are to please you in any way you see fit from now until three p.m.”

“It would _please_ me if you left me the hell alone.”

“My donor told me that you would be difficult, but to insist that I am only here for your benefit. Should I get undressed?”

Hank does have to hand it to Jimmy, or Chris, or Jeffrey—whoever was fucking psycho enough to try this shit when they know _exactly_ how he feels about androids, and they sent him on a day like this. At least they picked someone easy on the eyes.

Still. This is a bit much. “Nobody said you had to get undressed, you plastic asshole. I’m not gonna, what, fuck you? Jesus. How sick do they think I am?”

The android’s synthetic eyelids flicker a few times and its LED blinks for a while before it speaks again. “My sensors tell me that your temperature is slightly elevated at ninety-nine degrees fahrenheit and that you have a slight heart arrhythmia. Your breath also indicates that you have been drinking alcohol of some kind, high potential for whiskey or bourbon, based on the dark stains on your shirt. You seem well enough, if a little inebriated.”

God, all this mumbo jumbo makes his head spin. “Are you supposed to be suckin’ my dick or makin’ me soup?”

The android shrugs. _Damn_ , Hank thinks. _The guys at CyberLife have thought of everything_. “I’m here for your pleasure, so that is entirely up to you, Lieutenant Anderson.”

Okay, this shit is getting freaky. His friends wouldn’t have sent him some sweet little twink bot and told it to call him _Lieutenant_ _Anderson_. This reeks of his ex’s doing.

Lovely woman. Pity that she’d never let him propose to her, probably because she knew better. She’d always had a better head on her shoulders than Hank. “Don’t call me that.”

“Whatever you say, sir.”

Hank’s stomach does him the disservice of flipping at that. _Ugh_. He shakes his head to clear it, refusing to admit that he gets a little kick out of being blindly trusted and respected. “You stay in the kitchen and stay out of my way, got it?”

“Got it.”

The android promptly proves that it does not, in fact, _get it_ —or, more likely, that it understands completely and refuses to obey Hank, probably because Hank isn’t the one footing the bill. The client takes priority.

Hank flops down on the couch and groans. He has half a mind to go back to sleep, hoping that he’s just drunk and horny, dreaming this whole thing up. He jumps when he feels a soft hand pressing at his chest, wide brown eyes blinking down at him, soft blue light shining in Hank’s face. “I suggest that you go to sleep in your bedroom, sir. If you would prefer to stay awake, I could make you a cup of tea?”

“Fuck _off_ ,” Hank growls. This would feel a lot less patronizing if the android weren’t so…pretty. “Why are you so desperate to do this shit? Client must’a really paid top dollar for you to blow some depressed old man.”

The android grows quiet and somber for a long moment, staring deep into Hank’s eyes. It’s haunting, actually.

Its movements are so terribly human. “It’s what I’ve been programmed to do,” it says, fidgeting a little.

Hank is already well on his way to feeling guilty, though he knows that androids don’t have feelings, growing snarky and defensive. “Oh yeah? And what’ll they do if you disobey your orders?”

“I suspect that I will be decommissioned. The chances are high that my employers will send me back to CyberLife for repairs, and it is likely that I will be examined for problems in my biocomponents. My memory will be wiped before I am returned to the company for service.”

“So what? What do your memories matter? You’re not really _alive_ , are you?”

The android refuses to avert his eyes, but it does let out a slow, soft huff. “Not exactly.”

Silence falls. Somehow, the android’s quiet admittance doesn’t sit well with him. Hank almost wants to ask the sexbot to explain that, just to see what it’ll say.

But he doesn’t. “What’d you say your name was again?”

“Connor.”

“Well, Connor. I ain’t gonna let you suck my dick, but I guess you can make me some tea, if you really wanna. After that, you sit in the kitchen and keep to yourself. That’s an order.”

The android nods softly, lips twitching into an awkward little smile, like he’s not used to receiving a positive response.

 _Goddamn_ , Hank thinks. _What the hell have I gotten myself into?_

 

//

 

_**October 29, 2037.** 6:07 P.M._

 

Hank _hates_ homicides.

There are plenty of scumbags that get killed. Murdered in their own backyards by their most trusted friends, all that. The unfortunate truth is that many, many more innocent people are taken from the earth instead, murdered by ex-lovers, by vengeful coworkers and bitter neighbors.

Very, very rarely do they get saddled with the freaks—the ones who get off on killing just because. Hank has an iron stomach, but serial killers are the bane of any good cop’s career, and he has no desire to run across one, thank you very much.

It’s a cut and dry case this time. Woman raped and stabbed; sloppy killer. Evidence to collect, easy traces to follow. The perp’s identity will probably be announced on television in the morning.

Hank runs through the crime with the forensics team and starts pressing buttons on a tablet to begin paperwork. He’s tired, ready to call it quits and drown himself in liquor for the night.

 _Nyx Nightclub_ , a discarded flyer reads. There are smudged thumbprints all over it, like someone had been messing with the thing just hours ago.

“First Eden, now Nyx,” Chris mumbles, rolling his eyes. “People just can’t get enough of androids, I guess. The service is cheap, at least, if you’re into that sorta thing.” Hank gives him the stink-eye and he coughs. “My apologies, Lieutenant.”

“No harm, no foul.” Maybe it’s a little bit warped of Hank, but he can’t help remembering the doe-eyed, beauty-marked young thing from a couple weeks back.

Maybe he _should_ have let the android— _Connor_ —suck his dick, just to see what it felt like.

They’d parted on fair terms. Hank telling Connor to take care of itself; Connor remarking that it could only do so if it were requested more frequently. Their club is still fairly new, and its model is a prototype. The RK800, equipped with more sensitivity and texture recognition than any other android of its kind.

The perfect, awkward little lover, eager to please.

“Ugh,” is all that Hank chokes out, feeling disgusting for thinking about this when there’s a woman dead in the next room over. Her family will be clamoring for justice the moment he breaks the news.

He has to focus. He has enough warnings in his file.

Rampant alcoholism. Self-harm. Fighting with fellow officers. Failure to present informational documents in a timely manner. The list goes on and on.

“Fascinating,” a voice says, an android’s visage swimming in front of Hank’s eyes. “Being a police lieutenant must be very difficult.”

“What the fuck’re you doin’ here,” Hank slurs out. “What happened to the crime scene?”

“You have asked me this question three times, sir.” If Hank didn’t know any better, he would think that the android was teasing him. “You are currently inside of your house, and the time is eleven-fourteen p.m. Apparently, you left the scene at seven-thirty p.m., proceeded to have several shots of whiskey at Jimmy’s Bar, and then returned home. My services were requested at ten-oh-five, and I have been listening to you ramble since my arrival.”

Before Hank can reply to any of that, the android—Connor, the same one as before—drops to its knees and begins unzipping Hank’s pants. “Woah, woah,” the man says, hissing as he grabs the android’s pale, freckled hands. “What’re you doing?”

“I left a contact card here when my services were previously requested,” the android says, eyes still glued to Hank’s crotch like it’ll find gold there. “The Nyx club receptionists said that you asked for _the goofy-looking one, the one with the slicked-back hair and the curl_.”

Hank balks, feeling frustrated with himself. “Lemme guess. I told them to go ahead and charge it to my credit card?”

“Correct.”

The lieutenant groans. “Fuck me.”

The android tilts its head a bit, affecting a young, curious look. “That is what I was designed to do in crass terms, yes.”

Taking a moment to hang his head and collect his thoughts, the policeman sneers. “What’s the club’s return policy?”

“There are no refunds at Nyx. However, if you send me back before my designated return time, there is a high probability that someone more…unsavory will request my services.” Maybe Hank is still a little drunk, but he thinks Connor—the _android_ , he can’t call the thing by its name, it’ll just make his headache worse—sounds kind of scared. “Is my appearance unsatisfactory? I can change it.”

Hank balks. “No, there’s nothing wrong with your fuckin’ face. Christ.”

“Then you requested a sexual service android without being interested in sex?”

“Oh my god,” Hank hisses. “Just relax. I’m not gonna take advantage of you. It’s not your fault I was being an idiot.” He’s really acting his age, isn’t he? A depressed fifty-two year old, drunk dialing a young thing to suck his dick. It’s a new low, even for him.

“You wouldn’t be taking advantage of me. My primary directive is to attend to my client.” Connor goes back to pawing at Hank’s trousers, licking its lips and lowering its eyelids. The movements are calculated. Hank swallows dryly. “Let me do this for you, sir.”

And, okay, Hank is still tipsy. He’s a terrible liar at the best of times, with shaky hands and sweat dripping down the back of his neck.

Connor is attractive and enthusiastic. Persistent little fucker, too.

“If I say stop,” Hank says, voice cracking, “you stop immediately, you hear me?”

“Understood.”

The android is dreadfully efficient, pulling Hank’s cock out of his boxers in record time. Connor’s touch is tentative, and while he’s exploring, possibly running calculations on the best way to make the officer hard and help him come, Hank has time to study it— _him_.

There are so many personalized little details to him. His skin is peppered with airy freckles, imitations of sun spots, even a couple of light scars. Hank has half a mind to ask about those. He would, if his mind were even slightly more clear.

Androids didn’t have scars. They _shouldn’t_ , anyways. With enough money, they could be easily repaired, perfect skin unblemished and carefully pieced back together by CyberLife technicians.

Suddenly, hot air fans over the head of Hank’s dick. A tentative flick of Connor’s tongue against the length of it makes Hank shudder. Two fingers press at Hank’s ballsack, making the older man hiss. “I am currently unsure if that was a noise of pleasure or discomfort,” the android nosing at Hank’s crotch murmurs. “Please inform me.”

God, this thing is infuriatingly _proper_. Hank yanks him back, grabbing a fistful of soft, lightly-curled hair, startled by the way the android’s eyes widen in shock. “Just do whatever, okay. It’s fuckin’ fine.”

He receives a soft nod and an even softer smile for that comment. It’s such a human response that Hank’s dick stirs in response, growing firmer as Connor begins to fondle him in earnest.

Connor remains cautious for another minute, then he opens his mouth wide and swallows Hank down. His teeth are carefully sheathed, his tongue roams easily, and Hank inhales sharply, entranced.

It should have been obvious, but of course Connor doesn’t have a gag reflex. He’s an android designed for pleasure.

 _Of course_ , Hank thinks grimly, trying to remain focused while Connor is well on the way to sucking his brain out through his dick.

Hank hasn’t had a hookup in a long time. He’s not _really_ into it, but there is a physiological response. The most sensitive parts of his body are being slobbered over, and Connor’s mouth is unfortunately perfect. It’s hot, wet, warm; Hank leans back against the couch cushions and bites his bottom lip.

Connor sits back on his knees, pulling back to speak to him, pre-come smeared on his pale pink lips. “Are you adverse to making noise, Lieutenant?”

“Don’t call me that,” Hank reminds him, glaring down at the android. When he realizes that Connor is wary, he sighs, patting Connor’s head. “It’s just embarrassing. Don’t take it personally.”

“Okay,” Connor agrees easily, slinking back down. He tucks hair behind his ears and closes his eyes when he starts to work this time, hollowing his cheeks and pressing the flat of his tongue to the veins of Hank’s cock.

He really puts on a show, moaning and humming, the vibrations finally breaking Hank. A guttural noise escapes his mouth unintentionally, and he finds himself encouraging Connor to pick up the pace, barely warning him when he’s about to come.

Connor doesn’t seem to mind, his dark eyes dreamily half-lidded as jizz sprays across the bridge of his nose. He actually takes his fingers and smears them through the viscous fluid and pokes them into his mouth.

Hank pulls a face. “That’s disgusting.”

“I can run samples of fluids in real time. You have no diseases.” The comment is made with amazement. The shame of this whole situation fully hits the policeman—he’s just as dirty and skeevy as the other people that have requested Connor’s services. Connor reads Hank’s expression and says, “Don’t be concerned, sir. Club Nyx thoroughly scrubs all of our parts and biocomponents between each client. There is never any risk of disease when performing sexual acts with an android.”

Everything this guy says just makes Hank feel worse. He throws his hands over his face and groans. “Connor. For fuck’s sake, be quiet, please.”

Connor obeys.

The android tidies the living room a bit in the interim, giving Hank some space. When he returns, his spine is ramrod straight as he kneels on the floor, casually glancing around at things in the living room.

“You can sit up on the couch,” Hank mutters. He’s sober again. It sucks.

A beat passes, but Connor doesn’t move. Hank’s icy blue eyes examine him slowly this time, uninhibited by a cloud of lust.

“Do you only do shit when you’re ordered to do it?”

“That is the way that I was programmed, yes.”

Hank’s intuition screams that something deeper is going on behind the surface. He knows Connor has a personality, has an attitude—he can see it in everything that Connor does, in every minute motion of his hands. He’s restless, like he’s the type to wring his hands or jiggle his legs.

“They _program_ you to listen to any asshole with a wad of cash in their hands, too?”

The android does not answer, but his silence is telling. Eventually, he sports a sad little smile.

“You can stay here until the session is over,” Hank says, desperately wishing he had a bottle of whiskey in his hand. “But for god’s sake, get off of the floor.”

With mechanical precision, Connor stands up and plants himself on the couch. The room gets quiet enough for Sumo to pad over from the kitchen, finally sniffing at the stranger in their home.

It’s strange, having company over, and stranger still that Hank is letting an android pet his dog without complaint.

 

//

 

_**November 16, 2037.** 5:06 P.M._

 

When Jeffrey calls him into the office that evening, Hank already knows what’s coming.

He’s been distracted for the last few weeks. Working in homicide is never easy, but no matter what a terrible a cop Hank has been these last couple of years, he’s done his job well enough. He’s observant. He still wants to lock up the lunatics that are addicted to taking away lives.

The last four times that Hank had been called to the scene, he had shown up and done his work, but his heart hadn’t been in it.

He can’t stop thinking about the android from Nyx and his glossy brown eyes, so confusingly transparent. Hank is starting to think maybe he’s been wrong about androids―that they aren’t _just_ machines.

“I don’t know what the hell is wrong with you,” the captain scolds him, “but either you get your head back in the game, or you get out.”

“You don’t have to raise your voice, Jeffrey,” Hank replies morosely, fiddling with the edges of his jacket. More quietly, he says, “I know.”

The black man studies his tall friend for a long moment, then exhales heavily. “This time of year is hard on you, so I’ve given you a lot of space, but this is ridiculous. Gavin’s the only one turning out results, and god knows that nobody wants _him_ to become the new poster boy of the department.” Hank wrinkles his nose. “What’s this all about?”

He doesn’t say it, but Hank knows that Jeffrey’s silently asking whether this is about Cole. Whether this is some new way that he’s found to mourn.

“It’s personal,” Hank murmurs. “I’ve got it under control.”

Jeffrey, who has known Hank for half of his life, at _least_ , hums in disbelief. “If you say so.”

 

//

 

Hank turns the business card over in his hand. It’s holo-digital, a thin scrap of metal with a glaring readout. When he taps it for more information, none of the models listed are Connor’s. RK-whatever.

He thinks of the faint scars. The threat of violence happening at the club behind the curtains. All the signs are there, but Hank doesn’t have anything concrete to work with. Just a slightly-too-emotional android with expressive dark eyes and thin, pouty lips.

Against his better judgement, Hank dials the club. When he hangs up, he realizes that he’s too sober for this whole mess. At least his checking account is finally being fully utilized. Other than buying food to eat, liquor, and Sumo’s kibble, he barely touches the damn thing.

His savings account for his dead son is still untouched. He doesn’t even want to think about it.

When the doorbell rings, Sumo doesn’t even twitch. Fair enough, Hank thinks. It _is_ the third time that Connor has been in their home.

There are no bruises on him or anything, no cuts showcasing the glowing blue wires that Hank knows lie behind his synthetic skin, but the haunted look in his eyes? Hank recognizes it right away.

“Hello, sir,” Connor greets lightly, obviously affecting a lighter tone than he would if he weren’t being paid to be here. “Thank you for requesting me this evening.”

The truth of the matter is that Hank hasn’t been able to stop thinking about him. Now that he sees the guy, he’s worried. “Hey, Connor. Everything okay?”

There’s a pause. It’s brief, but it speaks volumes. “Everything is fine.”

“Okay, I’ll try a different angle. Have you been abused recently?” Connor’s mouth stays resolutely shut. “I guess I kinda figured this out from last time, but do you retain memories about past clients?”

“Our primary competitor is the Eden Club,” Connor replies in a clipped tone, still avoiding Hank’s eyes. “Nyx offers android companionship programs, hence why we make house calls, rather than keeping all of the clients in one space. The owners say that our reviews have steadily improved because of this differentiation.”

“Which basically means that you guys have more creeps you have to wait hand and foot on. That they can take advantage of you and you’ll remember it,” Hank snarls.

Connor offers him a sardonic little smile. “You’re very good, Lieutenant.”

“It’s my job to pay attention to this shit,” he replies sternly, “and for fuck’s sake, stop calling me that.”

“Apologies, sir.”

“And stop callin’ me that, too,” Hank grumbles.

“Mister Anderson?” Connor tilts his head. The motion is so ridiculously _cute_ that Hank almost jumps in place. He keeps scowling, though, to communicate that being called _Mister Anderson_ makes him feel old and rotten. “Mister Client?”

Hank finally catches on. His lips twitch upward of their own accord. “You’re fucking with me.”

Connor hums. “Technically, I’m being paid to do that, yes.”

The officer chuckles lowly. “Asshole.”

“Hank, then,” Connor says, tentatively sitting on the couch like he’s ready for Hank to change his mind and lash out at him any second. Hank relaxes, throws his arms over the back of the couch, body language indicating that he has no intention of getting violent. “What should we do tonight?”

Hank hates this. The power being put in his hands. He doesn’t want to fuck Connor when he’s obviously been hurt, but he can’t send him back to that club, either. “We could talk?” He stumbles over the words. He feels like a kid again, awkwardly fumbling on his first date, except he’s done everything all backwards, talking to the android after Connor’s already put Hank’s dick in his mouth.

“Okay then. May I ask you a personal question?”

With raised eyebrows, Hank says, “Sure.”

“Do you have any family members? Aside from your dog, of course,” Connor clarifies. “The last time I was requested, I saw a photo on the table of someone who looked a lot like you, but androids built for pleasure don’t have access to civilian information databases.”

Suddenly, Hank’s tongue feels like lead in his mouth. He puts his hands on his knees, mind a million miles away as he answers. “Cole,” he says. “My son’s name was Cole.”

“Oh,” Connor replies quietly, sensitively. “I see.”

Hank shakes the fog out of his head, refusing to cry and sink into a depressive funk. “Never married. No siblings. Mom and Dad live in southern Michigan. S’just me and Sumo here. We make do.”

Connor’s whole face lights up at the mention of Hank’s Saint Bernard. “He is a good dog.”

“Yeah,” Hank agrees fondly. “He is.”

After a long stretch of silence, Connor slides closer to Hank, flicking dark eyes up at the officer. “I don’t want you to feel like your money’s been wasted.”

“It’s not a waste. I can’t do much without evidence or a warrant, but I can shelter you for one night, at least.”

“You don’t have to feel bad about it,” Connor says somberly. “I’m a machine. My clients pay to use me, and I receive positive feedback in response.”

The funny part is, just a month ago, Hank would have agreed. Now?

Not so much.

“You’re better than that. Than them. You’re a smart kid, Connor.”

“My likeness is built to be that of someone in their late twenties, and my intelligence is expansive enough to be considered _adult_.” Connor sounds downright petulant, pouting at being called out for his immaturity. Brat. “I understand your meaning, however. I am aware that I am ignorant in some ways. Being stationed at Nyx has made me rather…sheltered.”

Hank’s instincts are screaming at him to burn the club the fuck down. “You’re aware that something bad is going down, though.”

“If by bad, you mean _illegal_ , then yes. I’m aware that some of our clients have less-than-ideal criminal records.” Connor confesses lowly, like he’s afraid someone will overhear. Hank supposes that the fear is real, for him. His memories could be downloaded and replayed at any given time. “Before you ask, no, I can’t say any more than I’ve said. You’ll have to look into it on your own, Lieutenant.”

It occurs to him that Connor isn’t dropping his rank to be polite. He’s telling Hank to do some legwork, but maybe not in so many words.

“You should keep requesting me,” Connor murmurs, lips ghosting over Hank’s neck. Long, pale fingers toy with the stringy gray strands of Hank’s hair while he talks. “Makes your investigation less suspicious.”

“We don’t have to fool around,” Hank says, feeling out of his depth. “I’ll help you, even without you doin’ that.”

Connor chuckles, lazily petting Hank’s chest. “I’m sure you would. You seem like a good person.” He lowers the register of his voice and keeps his narrowed brown eyes locked with Hank’s ice-blue eyes. “They occasionally do run checks on our bodies. It doesn’t have to mean anything, but you should at least pretend that you’re renting me for a reason.”

It’s a flimsy excuse.

Maybe Connor’s just used to communication through sexual acts because that’s all he knows.

It hurts. It’s enough to make Hank feel ill. He’s not in the mood at-fucking-all.

But he figures Connor can give him a hand job, at least. Keep his restless fingers busy. Nothing too invasive when the android has obviously had a long week.

It is stupid of him to brush hair out of Connor’s eyes when he’s done and kiss his temple, but Hank does it anyways.

He’s always been the type to get attached too quickly, and that attachment is going to get him into a lot of trouble, he can already tell.

 

//

 

_**March 05, 2038.** 9:02 P.M._

 

It’s become a routine at this point.

Hank’s savings account is slowly dwindling, but he doesn’t care. He’s working on and off the clock to try and save his favorite annoying little android.

It’s been months, but the whole puzzle won’t come together.

Shady cops. Underground deals. Clients who might call on an android sex service club. Red ice is involved, he’s sure, but how does it all come together?

What could they be selling illegally other than drugs? It’s an open secret that anyone and everyone could make ice and distribute it. Gambling? Out of the question.

Unless—and this is a big leap—the people at the club are doing something illegal involving _androids_? Sharing trade secrets? Breaching national security?

The United States is the only country to have popularized android usage so largely and extensively. Truthfully speaking, androids without LEDs seem just like humans. They’d be the perfect spies.

It’s all too easy to imagine Connor—boyish, snarky Connor—slipping into a suit and coming back with news on the Russians for President Warren. If Hank weren’t so convinced of Connor’s obvious PTSD and experiences with rape and abuse, he might believe the android to be part of Nyx’s upper echelon, aware of all of their plans and underground deals.

For better or worse, Connor really only knows how to handle his frustrations in one way.

“Oh my god,” Hank says, groaning when he opens the door to his bedroom. “They never taught you how to set the mood at Nyx?”

He’s sitting ass-up on the bed, holding very still. Connor looks like a doll that’s been posed in a lewd position, blue LED whirling on the right side of his temple. “Hello,” he greets, voice warm. “You’re the one that likes to discuss business _after_ pleasure. I figured that I would make it faster for you.”

Hank drags a hand down his face. Horny ass fucking android. “How many times do I tell you that this isn’t necessary, Connor? I don’t need…” _to take advantage of you_ , his mind supplies while he drawls lazily.

Connor straightens himself up. He’s wearing the same shit as always, but for some reason, sitting in Hank’s bed, he looks young and soft and sleepy. “I’m beginning to suspect that you don’t actually like _me_ , sir,” Connor muses. “Just my information.”

Before he knows it, Hank is raising his voice defensively. “Hey. You _know_ that’s not fuckin’ true.” He surprises himself with the knowledge, really. He’s fond of Connor, now, even if he is an android. “I just…don’t you ever want to do _anything_ else? Play games on the couch? Read a book? Hell, even if you’re just trying to jump me, don’t _you_ wanna play an active role, instead of sitting there and letting me fuck your thighs?”

The android gets pouty, cheeks puffing up a little bit. “You barely even wanted to do _that_. You won’t penetrate me at all, unless we are engaging in oral sex.”

“ _Jesus_ ,” Hank curses, cheeks flushing hot. “You don’t have to say it like a textbook.”

“It’s still true,” Connor replies, studying Hank intensely as he leans forward. He touches the cop’s hand, threading their fingers together. “You don’t want to?”

In a rush, Hank mumbles, “I want you to do it because _you_ want to. Not because you’re bein’ paid to. Do you even get off on this at all?”

“Not in the way that humans would describe as _getting off_ , no,” the android says. “I _do_ derive pleasure from it. My physicality sensors can be turned off or on according to user preference.”

“Just programming, he says,” Hank mutters. “How do you actually _feel_ about me?”

Connor stalls out for a moment, LED cycling from blue to yellow. Hank blinks. It’s a reaction if he’s ever seen one. The android furrows his brow— _his_. Hank wonders when he started to think of Connor as a _he_ , rather than an _it_. “I don’t understand. I am a machine. I’m only able to affect something similar to feelings because of my coding. Formulas. Diagnostics.”

“Cut the bullshit,” the cop snarls, grabbing Connor’s hand so tightly that it might’ve bruised, if he was soft and human. “I _know_ you have feelings. Look at you. You’re upset right now. Your nightlight gives you away loud and clear. It’s red.” Connor reaches up to cover it bashfully, but it’s too late. “I wanna know _why_ you’re so persistent about this. Did the guys at Nyx put you up to this? Did they—”

“ _No_ ,” Connor snaps. Then, receding a bit, reeling himself in, the android quietly repeats himself. “No. They didn’t change my settings to be more receptive to you. I just,” he stutters, and isn’t that awfully human of him, “I’m curious to see what it feels like. When you have sex with someone who cares.”

Hank exhales slowly, leaning back on his palms, examining the android on his bed.

He’s young. Young in appearance, young in awareness. Soft-eyed, soul-searching, a little reserved. He’s not pure, though—he’s already seen the worst of humanity and remained steady in spite of the nightmare his life must be.

He deserves better than Hank.

“I’m going to take that club down,” Hank murmurs, raising a shaky hand to Connor’s jaw and cradling it gently. “When you’re free, you should date. Or fuck around with somebody worth your time, at least. Somebody who doesn’t see you as an object.”

“ _You_ don’t,” Connor says, clutching Hank’s hand with less force, almost like he’s afraid of what his cybernetic body is capable of.

“That’s not—it isn’t what I meant when I said that and you know it. Stop bein’ such an asshole,” Hank chides him, fingers lingering precariously closely to Connor’s nape. He’s been in this situation before, dozens of times. He doesn’t know if he’s strong enough to resist the pull. If he ever has been. “I’m old, Connor. I’ve been through a lot. The minute I let myself have sex with you is the minute it’s over for me, okay? You shouldn’t be tied to this old dog. You’ve gotta explore the world. Find out what life is all about, before you settle for _this_.” Hank gestures to his entire body when he says the last word.

“I think you’re underestimating my intelligence and decision-making protocols by calling it settling. Being with you is comforting. You might consider this something of a glitch in my software, but I _do_ want this. I want you, in any shape or form that you’ll allow me to have.”

Hank swallows dryly, heart beating a mile a minute as his dry, chapped lips gravitate to Connor’s soft, silicon-smooth mouth. “You’re an idiot.”

Connor smiles slyly. “If I am, it’s because you’ve taught me to affect said stupidity.”

The policeman shakes his head at that, unable to keep from grinning, giving in.

Their kisses are awkward at first, a strange mix of hesitance and humiliation and shame. Connor closes his eyes completely, relaxes a little bit, scrapes his nails against Hank’s scalp. Hank squeezes the little shit closer, bites Connor’s lips, feels something like electricity dance up the android’s spine.

For a split second, Connor’s fabricated skin fades. He pulls back shyly, concerned.

A while time ago, Hank would’ve dropped this whole thing because of that.

He presses his lips to a beauty mark on the corner of Connor’s eye, scowling at him. “We can stop, if you want, but I don’t mind. Bein’ an android ain’t something you can turn off.”

There’s a brief pause before Connor snickers. “And being a human is something that you _can_ turn off?”

He earns a slap on the wrist for his sass. “Shaddup.” Hank pulls Connor awkwardly into his lap, sloppily sliding his tongue into the android’s mouth. He doesn’t taste like much, and Hank is vaguely aware that as many times as they’ve fooled around, this is the first time he’s gotten so swept up in it, giddy with excitement about the way the night is going.

He slides his fingers between the cleft of Connor’s ass, listening to his responding moan. _Sensors, audio trajectory, programs._

Bullshit. Hank knows lust when he hears it, plain and simple. The freaks at CyberLife _have_ thought of everything, including androids with autonomy and desire. Connor wants more, wants to be closer, dry humping against Hank’s thighs and knocking the breath out of the cop.

When Connor starts pawing at Hank’s jeans, the older man pulls his hands away. Dark brown eyes glare at him harshly and Hank snorts.

“Relax,” Hank murmurs, sparing a moment to press a wet kiss to Connor’s left cheek, “I just wanna show you something.”

Hank can feel Connor watching him impatiently while he strips down, peeling off his clothes nervously. It’s been a long time. A long, _long_ time since he’s even considered something like this. The last time hadn’t been nearly so tender. It had been a means to escape, just like all of Hank’s other unhealthy coping mechanisms.

It’s scary, being this vulnerable around anybody again, let alone an android that could probably snap him in half, if he wanted to, if he could break free from the code forcing him to be a subservient little sex-toy.

“C’mere,” Hank says, spreading his legs to allow Connor into the space between them. Connor dutifully opens his mouth, his fingers reaching for Hank’s dick on instinct, but the lieutenant stops him. “No, not _there_. My ass.”

Realization dawns on Connor, and he dips his head low, flicking his tongue out. Hank hisses again, making annoyance flash in the android’s eyes. “Am I not allowed to touch you, even though this is where you are clearly gesturing? The rules of this game aren’t very clear, Hank.” Connor’s jaw snaps like he’s been slapped. “Or is it sir again?”

“Hank is fine,” he replies gruffly, refusing to expose himself, to let Connor know how much it _means_ to him that the android is learning his tastes, adjusting, refusing to be so formal with a man who keeps on testing him. “You don’t gotta use your tongue, Jesus. I got lube.”

Connor’s eyelids flicker. He’s processing.

When he’s finished, he dons an expression of confusion. “You want me to finger you open, then?”

A long beat of silence falls before Hank grabs Connor’s ass and grinds his half-hard dick against it. “What I _want_ is for you to fuck me.”

“…Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.”

Connor’s LED flickers yellow for a while, and Hank is worried that maybe the android doesn’t want to do this after all, that he’s changed his mind. That maybe he’s never thought about it before—getting guidance instead of orders. “You’ll tell me what feels pleasurable for you?”

The cop snorts, rolling his eyes. “That’s what you were worried about? Hell yeah. I’m not lettin’ you into my ass blind.”

“You trust me?”

Hank is getting more heartbroken by the minute, thinking about the way people have fucked this poor android up. He wraps his hands around Connor’s neck. The young man doesn’t seem surprised or shaken by the movement—he just adjusts himself, pressing himself into Hank’s cushy chest, listening to his heartbeat thrumming loudly.

“Yeah,” Hank rasps out, clearing his throat and stroking Connor’s soft hair, “Guess I do.”

The android inhales sharply, like he hadn’t been expecting such an answer. Fair enough—Hank hadn’t really planned on saying that, either.

Connor reaches for lubricant slowly, putting the bottle down between Hank’s legs. He tentatively follows the salt-and-pepper happy trail down to Hank’s crotch, tugging on the curly pubic hairs in awe, pressing his thumb against a thick vein in Hank’s cock and caressing his heavy, hairy sack behind it, acting like he hasn’t seen all of this a dozen times before. The attention is kind of nice, until it’s annoying.

“C’mon,” Hank grunts. “Don’t tease. It’s not nice.”

“I wasn’t aware that I was supposed to be nice,” Connor replies, his tone airy and guileless. “Thank you very much for explaining that to me.”

Hank has half a mind to bark out a quick _fuck you_ , but Connor gets the hint and pours lube down Hank’s taint without a care in the world. The older man hisses. “Holy shit.”

“I’m sorry,” Connor says, sounding genuinely distressed. “The temperature was unpleasant?” Hank nods, scowling furiously. “I will adjust the temperature of my fingers before entry, to make the rest of the process comfortable. Tell me what I should do next.”

Hank laughs bitterly, licking his lips before he talks. “Dunno. Explore, I guess. Work me open. Prostate’s not too hard to find.”

“Your instructions are infuriatingly vague, Hank.”

“Yeah, well. Humans are weird like that. We don’t come with instruction manuals.”

So, Connor gets to work. The intrusion isn’t too awkward, and Connor’s quiet, focused on his task. Hank had banked on the android being a bumbling virgin, but he’s not—obviously. He’d been _designed_ for the sex industry.

He never forgets about Hank’s pleasure, studying his face for minute changes before adjusting the amount of fingers, the warmth radiating from his core, and moving his other hand up the thick girth of Hank’s cock in intervals.

He’s good.

When pre-come starts to spill onto Connor’s left hand, the android smiles, letting out a soft sigh of relief. That’s when Hank realizes something.

“You’re nervous,” Hank gasps, gripping Connor’s arm and gasping, because the android starts dragging three fingers inside of his ass, hitting Hank’s sweet spot over and over again. His blue eyes are frantic with desire as he holds Connor’s gaze. The android looks surprised to have been called out, jumping in place as he spreads Hank’s legs further apart, driving long fingers in deeper. “ _Goddamn_ —” He curses, gripping Connor’s wrist tightly. “Hey, stop.”

Connor pulls out at once, looking a little dazed. “My apologies,” he sheepishly says, finally looking away from his bed partner. “That was fascinating. I’ve never seen you so flushed before.”

“We’re not _done_ ,” Hank says, rolling his eyes. “I just figured, y’know, we should get on with the actual fucking.”

The younger man beams.

Hank is such a sucker for a pretty face.

“C’mon.”

Connor slips out of his underwear slowly. It’s not the first time Hank’s seen him unclothed, but it’s the first time there’s been no ceremony. He doesn’t ask whether Hank wants him to adjust his settings or parameters or sensitivity or whatever the fuck.

He’s just a _guy,_ eager to screw Hank stupid. Go figure.

“Go slow, alright,” Hank grumbles. “I’m old.” He can practically _feel_ Connor getting ready to make some witty comment about how the average life-expectancy is now ninety-nine or something, so he snaps, “ _Don’t_ get smart with me. I’m too wound up to bicker with you.”

“Whatever you say,” Connor obliges, leaning down, dark curls sweeping against Hank’s scruffy jawline.

He sets his teeth on Hank’s neck as he slides in, the soft noise of skin-on-skin—or silicon on skin, Hank supposes—echoing in the room while both of them groan. He doesn’t know what Connor sees in him, in his ruddy, sweaty skin, in the faded tattoo blooming across his chest, but when Hank cracks his eyes back open, the android is entranced.

Connor adjusts himself before he slides back, moaning wetly as he snaps his hips, dragging the head of his cock against Hank’s prostate. “Hank,” he murmurs, sounding near to aroused tears. “It’s good.”

Hank grabs him by the back of his head, rutting against the android’s abdomen. “Harder.”

“I’ll hurt you.”

The cop bites Connor’s ear. “You won’t.”

His LED flickers for a moment or two, then he picks up the pace, moving Hank’s thighs and drilling himself into his partner more thoroughly. Hank bites his lip to keep from screaming.

Connor keeps on _staring_ at him, multitasking. One stroke for Hank’s dick. One beat for the heavy weight of his dick in Hank’s ass.

“S’good,” Hank manages to choke out. It’s better than good. He doesn’t remember the last time he was fucked so thoroughly. His left leg is starting to cramp. Connor’s got him laid out on the bed like a whore, knees nearly up on the android’s shoulders, and he’s rocking the mattress, he’s thrusting so quickly. “Feels good, okay? Keep going.”

The feedback elicits a giddy noise from Connor.

Little bit of a kink for praise? Hank files the knowledge away for later.

The only reason it takes Hank so long to come is that he’s rusty and old. If he were even four years younger, he wouldn’t have made it to the second hearty push, but today, he chokes after a minute or two, clinging to Connor desperately.

Connor pulls out when Hank is finished, eyes wide and round.

“See?” Hank pants. “Told you I’d be fine.”

As they bask in the resounding silence of the room, trapped in a strange afterglow, Hank wonders if maybe he’s flipped the android’s world upside down.

 

//

 

_**March 13, 2038.** 10:58 P.M._

 

“Sorry to bother you, Lieutenant,” Chris says, opening his phone call with a low, careful voice. “Remember how you were keeping tabs on that android sex rental club, Nyx?”

Hank’s hand stills on Sumo’s fluffy backside. Gruffly, he replies, “What’ve you got?”

Gary Wilson, 29, is laid out on his floor with four bullets lodged in his chest. There’s no sign of a break-in, but there _is_ a veritable truckload of red ice stored in the asshole’s basement. While Ben rattles off information, he says something or another about him being the governor’s nephew. About him working spotty, part-time day jobs. Being good with computers.

The puzzle is all finally starting to come together.

“Well, well,” Detective Gavin Reed greets Hank as the lieutenant walks through the front door. “Surprised to see you sober at a crime scene.”

Hank rolls his eyes. Gavin’s annoying, sure, but only in the same way that mosquitoes and ants are. He’s easily ignored. Hell, the little shit probably gets his rocks off on people turning their noses up at him and treating him like garbage. Best not to indulge him, refuse to reply.

He turns to Ben while Chris stays on patrol outside, keeping civilians and frothy-mouthed media mongrels away from the scene. “What’s the situation?”

Ben wipes his perpetually damp brow to give a report. “Nyx got a call a couple hours ago. Said one of their bots was acting up. Unserviceable. Call came from the victim’s phone, something about how he couldn’t get hard without the android having all the right parts.” Hank scowls, his stomach unsettled by the terminology. “Next thing you know, he’s high as a kite, dead from blood loss.”

“And, of course, the android is nowhere to be found,” Gavin chimes in unnecessarily, like they don’t have the fucking eyes to figure that out by themselves.

There are signs of a struggle all over the place. Overturned furniture. Splashes of blood on the carpet. Guy’s eyes are still open, cock still loosely hanging out of his pants, dried semen caking his jeans. That android fought for its life.

Maybe it’s wrong of him, but Hank isn’t sorry the guy is dead. Red ice has ruined a lot of lives. He knows that all too well.

“The android’s not back at the club, I assume,” Hank ventures to say, keeping his voice level by any means necessary, though his pulse is thunderous in his ears. “What’d they look like?”

“ _It_ ,” Gavin corrects him. Hank swallows down the dirty urge to cuff the detective across the jaw. “It was a female-model, JV200 series.” He pulls out one of the DPD’s field tablets, looking through pictures. “Not the first case of its’ kind, but the first in a while. Gonna have a field day keeping this under wraps.”

Hank grimaces. “What does CyberLife classify this kind of issue as?”

“Software errors,” Ben replies, “but some people have taken to calling it deviancy.”

The whole idea of this is fucked straight to hell, but Hank focuses on following the clues, figuring out how they’re going to track down a rogue android and interrogate them for killing a man. He can’t link _this_ case to information smuggling; it’ll have to be the ice and the mishandling of androids that they bust Nyx for.

He can’t help feeling like this is wrong, that they should be _helping_ her, not defending some lowlife drug dealer. He’d probably tried to rape her, too—Hank would bet on it.

The question now is: how do they _find_ the android?

Nobody at the DPD is equipped to handle that particular problem.

 

//

 

_**March 14, 2038.** 1:27 A.M._

 

“It killed a human?” Connor is shocked by the news when he talks through his communicator. He and Hank had worked out a way to talk privately back in January, the cop able to call him through the interface on his temple. The security of the line is flimsy, and Connor runs the risk of being caught at any time, but he’s willing to take his chances.

Hank exasperatedly runs a hand through his stringy gray hair. “Yeah. So be careful, alright? Our guys are looking into the club’s inner dealings again because of how much ice this guy was storing, treating it like a drug bust. I don’t know what’s going to happen if they have to shut the club down.”

“There are other clubs,” the android replies stiffly, sounding a little distant. “Some of us will be sent elsewhere if we’re functional. The probability is statistically higher that we’ll be returned to CyberLife, have our memories wiped, and then sold as used goods. Household models. Exercise companions.”

The one topic that Hank has been avoiding for months suddenly looms over them. “And you?”

“My model is a prototype,” he replies softly. “I’ve already told you what’ll happen to me.”

 _I’ll be decommissioned_. Unfortunately, Hank remembers.

After a long pause, the cop sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Listen. This is a long shot, but what if you could help the police department?”

“My sensors are incredibly advanced, but my unit was still primarily designed for enhancing sexual pleasure.”

“Shut up. I don’t want excuses as to why it might _not_ work—we’re thinking of solutions.” Hank stands up and paces, fingers itching for a cold glass of whiskey. “How would you track down another android?”

Another pause. Connor finally says, “Were there signs of a struggle?”

“Yeah. No footprints or fingerprints left behind, though. The perpetrator did a good job covering up their work.”

Connor makes an amused noise. “Not good enough. In fact, the _absence_ of those proves that it didn’t think it through. Were there visible traces of thirium present?”

“Excuse me?”

“Blue blood.”

Hank closes his eyes, recalling the scene. “Don’t remember any. Why?”

“Thirium is designed to evaporate after several hours. It’s not a perfect substance; that doesn’t always work. When it does, only other androids are equipped to find traces of it.”

 _Perfect_. “I’ll call it in, figure out how to bring you to the scene.”

“You can’t,” Connor hurriedly says. “Hank, it’s too dangerous. The club owners are already suspicious of you because you’re a cop and a regular. They’re going to be on high alert because of this case.”

Hank growls, slamming his palm on his coffee table. Sumo whines from the kitchen. “What else am I supposed to do? I can’t just— _leave_ you there to die. Fuck that.”

Connor’s voice gets clipped and agitated. “My memory might be wiped, but I can come back. You only get one chance, and you can’t be _repaired_. Don’t be stupid.”

Instead of responding to him, Hank hangs up.

 _Too bad_ , he thinks.

Hank has a reputation for being the biggest fucking idiot he knows.

 

//

 

_**March 14, 2038.** 12:27 P.M._

 

The door to Jeffrey Fowler’s office is slammed open unceremoniously. The Captain immediately sits back in his chair and sighs. “This better be good.”

“I know an android that can help us find the murderer,” Hank insists, making sure the door is closed behind him. He knows that his and Fowler’s arguments have a tendency to get bitter and loud.

Hank’s statement obviously startles the captain, so the black man leans forward on his desk, furrowing his brow. “Thought you hated androids, Hank? The fuck’s this all about?”

“This is personal,” Hank says, slamming his palms down on the desk and scowling at his old friend. “It’s a flimsy excuse and I’m askin’ you because I don’t know else I’m supposed to _do_ , Jeffrey.”

It occurs to him that he hasn’t seen Hank this worked up in some time. Years, really.

Almost three years, to be precise. It’s nice, to see some piss and vinegar in him again.

“He works at Nyx. All the signs are there. Drug deals. Shady business. Sex bots. He’s some sort of advanced prototype—all kinds of crazy shit he can see, smell, taste. I think we can take those assholes down with his help, figure out what’s going on. Something tells me this incident isn’t a one-time thing. Androids…they’re not _objects_. They’ve got feelings. That girl who murdered Wilson isn’t the first one to act out, and she won’t be the last.”

Jeffrey scoffs. “Ha. Even assuming you’re _not_ out of your goddamn mind, how did you meet this android?” Hank looks away from him quickly, ashamed. The captain shakes his head. “You fucked it?” When Hank stays silent, Jeffrey incredulously asks, “More than once?”

“That’s not the point—”

“I’m not helping you save your stupid sex-toy!”

“He’s not a _toy_ ,” Hank hisses through grit teeth, curling his hands into fists. “If you won’t help me, I’m going to bust him out of there by myself, protocol be damned. So either we do this under the guise of official police business, or you lose your most decorated officer.”

The captain openly seethes, furious with Hank for giving him this ultimatum. “Your record shows that you should have been fired a long time ago.”

“Jeffrey,” Hank somberly begs, lowering his voice, keeping his blue eyes locked on his old friend’s dark brown eyes, “ _please_.”

For several minutes, Fowler says nothing.

Then he rolls his shoulders and groans. “You are the biggest asshole I’ve ever had the misfortune of working with.”

Breathing out heavily in relief, Hank says, “Thank you,” and he really, truly means it.

 

//

 

_**March 19, 2038.** 7:42 P.M._

 

“One’a you fucks knows what happened with that thing, and I’m gonna find out.” William, one of the co-owners at Nyx, paces up and down the rows of crates.

There are androids lined up, ankles chained to their ports at the club. They have a couple of private rooms in the building up front, for people who want to get frisky on-site, but Eden’s a classier place for that. Here, the merchandise is on display in lycra clothing, digital readouts for rental options next to each of them.

Connor stays meticulously calm through the whole investigation, but he does feel bad for another unit designed to look like an androgynous young person, a friend of the android who’d gone missing, on the run for killing a man.

The trick is to zone out. Keep his eyes locked straight ahead. Remember his programming. He can’t think of Hank, can’t think of Sumo, can’t think of the one human he knows with _humanity_. The Mason Brothers, the owners of the Nyx Club, barely register to him, even as they spit on his face and grill him for answers.

When they close the crate with Connor and four other models, he can hear his fellow androids sigh in relief. He hates living in the dark, but what other choice does he have?

There are rumors spreading about why the JV200 defected. Rumors about deviancy. He tries not to think about that either. He’s a machine. Machines don’t have to do anything other than what they’re designed to do.

However, when he hears police sirens sounding in the distance, he just _knows_ that his LED is flashing an urgent, violent red. He stays still, even while the Masons scramble to hide the guns, the dirty money, the drugs.

Running an android sex service has been a good front for all the stuff hidden under the rug.

“Lieutenant Hank Anderson,” a familiar voice booms out. Connor turns his audio processors up and closes his eyes, refusing to ruin this whole thing by calling out to him. “Detroit Police Department.”

William claps his hands together, putting on a show. “How can I help you, Lieutenant?”

“We’ve got a warrant to search your place. Sources say you have an android missing, and the victim was often witnessed carrying suitcases onto your property. Suitcases that we believe were filled with red ice. I’m sure you understand, what with one of your men dead and all.”

“Paul,” the man shouts, “Shoot to kill. Call everybody you can, we gotta go!”

Dozens of flashes and bangs ring out—it’s a gunfight. Connor slams his palms against the warehouse crate’s door, glaring down at the shackle on his ankle. Another android looks at him in wonder. “You have to help me,” Connor grasps their wrist and whispers through internal communications. They nod. The other three join in moments later, sliding the door open slightly, even though they can’t fully escape without the aid of a human.

It’s a mess outside. The people working for the Mason brothers aim at anything that moves. A stray bullet nearly grazes one the androids in Connor’s hold, so they close the door back, just for a moment.

Ten minutes pass. Fifteen. It’s gotten quiet.

Connor yells Hank’s name. A few officers are patrolling, and one of them finally hears him, signaling for the lieutenant to come over.

The android is furious with the police officer, glaring daggers. “I told you not to come here.”

“I couldn’t leave you behind.” Hank is tired of being a coward. He’s already spent the last three years doing that. “Stop lookin’ like that, I’ll live. Chris is hounding me to get in an ambulance, but I gotta get you out first. How?”

“I can partially overwrite the code, but our shackles require a human fingerprint for identification. It might take a few minutes to process—”

“Just do it,” Hank grunts out, pressing his palm to the open wound. “Make it quick.”

Connor concentrates. He kneels down to access the security system for the chain. Errors, errors, wrong access point, hole in the code… _done_. He grabs Hank’s clammy hand and presses his thumb to the scanner. _Process complete. Unlocked_.

He helps the rest of the androids in his cell out, thanks them for their help. Throws Hank bodily into his arms, despite the older man’s complaints, and rushes towards the flashing red lights, focused on the medical symbol emblazoned on the truck.

The android looks at the other officers, staring at him curiously. “You have to help him,” Connor murmurs, clutching the black man’s arm, “Please.”

They drive away, Chris giving the paramedics instructions and directions. Connor closes his eyes, tries not to think about those left behind. Those who he didn’t help.

Those that will have to find their own way, just as he’s found his, connected to the policeman who helped him wake up.

 

//

_**March 20, 2038.** 11:15 A.M._

 

It’s been a while since Hank has been in the hospital.

He doesn’t like to think about the reason he was here last time. Instead, he shakes the fog out of his head, looks around.

Right next to the bed, there’s a bright blue LED light attached to an unblinking, scowling face. “I don’t think I’m fond of your reckless behavior, Lieutenant.”

“Back to _Lieutenant_ again, are we?” Hank grumbles good-naturedly. He can’t keep the smile off of his face for long. He holds his hand out, palm up, and Connor only stares at it for a moment before taking it.

“I still haven’t forgiven you for quite literally charging in with guns blazing,” Connor chides him airily, but his lips are quirked upwards slightly, too. “But I suppose you _are_ a patient, so I’ll stop harping on it for the moment.”

It’s comfortable, being with Connor here. Even though the nurses come in to interrupt them every five seconds, checking on Hank’s vitals, it’s nice. Sweet.

Connor knows Hank’s medical charts and history better than Hank himself does, except for one part. “You’re going to have to go in for psych testing,” a young woman in police blues reminds Hank and he groans. “You’ve avoided it for long enough, Lieutenant Anderson. Before you ask, _no_ , Captain Fowler can’t get you out of it. We know that you haven’t been taking your antidepressants, and refusal to do this assessment will result in you having to turn in your badge.”

“Okay, okay,” Hank gripes. “I got it. Understood.”

“Good luck,” she says, waving goodbye as she exits the room.

The android could bore a hole through Hank’s head with the force of his stare. “Antidepressants?”

Hank closes his eyes, sighing. “It’s a long story.”

“If you’re not tired, then tell me,” Connor starts, gripping Hank’s hand so hard the cop thinks it might bruise. Realizing that, Connor loosens his hold apologetically.

God, it hurts. It’s been three years, but it still hurts like everything happened yesterday. “I’ve been battling with depression for a long time, but it got worse after my son died.” He feels the detailed knobs of Connor’s knuckles. He’s so human. How could Hank have ever thought differently? “It was my fault. Truck skidded over a patch of black ice, crashed into me. Flipped the whole damn thing over. I made it out alive. Cole didn’t.”

There’s a long pause where Hank has to gather his thoughts. Keep his tears under lock and key. He’s so tired of being tired. Of being miserable. Broken.

“I used to think,” and Hank stops mid-sentence, guilt causing his voice to crack. “I blamed androids, for his death. When we were taken to the hospital, there was an android responsible for watching over my son. Doctor’s aide, said to be just as good. I found out later that the doctor was fucked up, too high out of his fucking mind to take care of my kid. The android didn’t do _anything_ —they just did their job. They weren’t equipped to handle the surgery by themselves.”

Connor’s still staring at him, so Hank leans back against the pillows and closes his eyes, grimacing.

“I’m not proud of everything before. Even when I met you, I was just a stumbling alcoholic, right?” Connor doesn’t refute the rhetorical question, so Hank chuckles a bit. “I just wanted everything to be over. Left it up to chance. Too scared to die, too scared to live. I guess I needed a sign.”

“So you’re saying that sign was me?”

Hank opens his blue eyes slowly, carefully, squeezing Connor’s hand. “Guess I am.”

Connor makes a happy little noise. “You know Hank, it’s not in my programming to initiate kisses.”

“Hmm,” Hank hums in disbelief.

“But I think that if you weren’t stuck in the hospital, I would, as you say, jump your bones and kiss you stupid.”

Hank laughs long and hard at that. “Guess that’ll just have to wait ‘til I’m discharged, then.”

 

//

 

_**April 7, 2038.** 10:06 A.M._

 

“We can’t have an android detective on the force,” Jeffrey says—more like screams—in Hank’s face. He’s doggedly trailed by an android with a boyish, squeaky-clean face and ramrod-straight posture. “It’s totally unheard of and unprecedented.”

“Who better to handle cases with an android assailants than an android?”

Fowler clicks his tongue angrily, stewing. He points an accusatory finger in Hank’s face once he gathers his thoughts. “If this is about that red ice dealer, that case is out of our hands now. If this is,” his eyes stray to Connor’s before he continues, “ _personal_ , you’re going to have to be the one to contact management and CyberLife to obtain the permissions. It’s not my problem.”

Hank leans forward on the desk with his good arm. “I’m trying to help you. I watch the news, Jeffrey. Everybody’s spooked because their androids are starting to realize they’re sentient. It’s only a matter of time before shit hits the fan, and I’m offering you a way to get the job done early. They could promote you for this shit. Open your fucking eyes.”

“If you’re so determined to get that thing into the DPD,” Jeffrey stubbornly insists, “then do it through the proper channels. I don’t care _how_ smart your sexbot is.”

“His _name_ is Connor,” Hank grits out, blood boiling hot in his veins. “This discussion isn’t over. He’ll get through the academy in no time, and then we’ll be back.”

“Fine,” Fowler replies sourly. “Close the door on your way out.”

Hank makes excuses to leave the office, dragging Connor out with him. The ride back to the house is quiet.

They don’t have much to discuss anymore. The immediate danger has passed. The Nyx Club is closed indefinitely, and the Mason brothers are on the run. Hank had done everything he could to make sure the androids from the club had been safely moved to cleaner establishments. He hadn’t been able to get guarantees that their memories would go untouched, but the android he cares about the most is fine, and here with him, which is all that matters.

The only problem?

In the eyes of the law, Hank has to _own_ Connor. He’s emancipated, technically, as the fees for his title were paid for by the Mason brothers, and their titles had been void as soon as their operation went under.

Connor says he doesn’t mind, that he’s begun to think of Hank as his human anyways, but Hank doesn’t have the vocabulary for how much the idea disturbs him.

 _Ownership_. Christ, Hank should barely be allowed to have his dog. He definitely shouldn’t be trusted to take care of a whole person, and Connor _is_ a person—Hank reminds him constantly. He can think and feel for himself.

“If you couldn’t,” Hank assures him, “you wouldn’t have such a terrible sense of humor, and you wouldn’t be so fuckin’ cocky.”

“I was led to believe that you appreciated my cockiness,” Connor replies in a chipper tone, LED blinking as he flips through channels remotely.

He’s pretty as a picture again today, figuring out how he’s going to be the first android investigator. Laid out on the couch in one of Hank’s ratty old t-shirts and precious little else, his long, pale legs are enticing.

Hank leans on the back of the couch and runs his fingers through Connor’s hair. Connor, bless him, leans into the touch and keens. “Why’d they give you so many freckles, anyways?” They pepper his pale skin from head to toe. It’s so fucking cute.

“I was designed to fit into human society easily,” Connor muses. “I was also designed to suit the tastes of many people. Sexbot, remember?”

Hank sticks out his tongue. “Don’t call yourself that.” He lazily snakes his hand under the hem of Connor’s— _his_ —shirt, feeling up his ass. “Though, speakin’ of sex...”

Connor lowers his lashes, grinning at Hank impishly. “I thought you said you were _too tired_ , and that your arm hurt, because you’re an old man.”

Rolling his eyes, Hank huffs. “Do you not want to?”

“Of course I want to. I was merely teasing you, Hank.” The android rolls over on the couch so he’s closer to Hank, parting his thighs for ease of access. “I don’t have a penis synthesized today. Will that bother you?”

“Ass, clit. Seen it all, Con. Don’t bother me in the least.”

Connor beams. It almost makes Hank feel scummy, how deliciously eager he is for Hank’s attention. He works Connor open quickly, letting the android climb into his lap, drag his teeth against Hank’s collarbone. When he shivers, Hank knows he’s succeeded, that Connor is close.

Before he lets Connor finish, he leans back further on the couch. Connor just watches him, a little frustrated, a lot curious. Once Hank gets settled into position, he gestures to his own mouth. “My beard gonna bother you?” Connor shakes his head, tilting his head in wonder. “C’mere then.” Connor scooches up, sitting on Hank’s chest, momentarily stopping to poke at the cop’s clothed nipples. “Don’t you dare. I’m takin’ care of you tonight.”

He gives Connor a few more instructions, waiting until the android’s ass is poised right over his mouth. Connor frowns. “I’m heavier than the average human. What if something fritzes and I crush you?”

 _Ain’t that a way to go,_ Hank thinks. “I know you won’t. Just sit down and relax. I’m gonna make it good for you.”

He parts Connor’s legs wide, dips his tongue in neatly. Doesn’t taste like much; little bit like bunching cotton in his mouth. Connor’s wet, though, and _noisy_. This is new.

Something he does must give his interest away, because Connor starts talking, albeit breathlessly. “I had an upgrade installed while you were in the hospital. Higher viscosity in my internal lubricant, greater range of vocalizations while being—” He sharply cuts himself off to moan desperately. “ _Pleasured._ ”

Hank doesn’t say anything. He can’t. He’s too focused on the task at hand. On the way that Connor presses his palms flat on his gut, the way that he reaches for Hank’s cock but stops short, too busy choking out sobs and begging for more.

Maybe it’s programming, but god, the power swimming in Hank’s head right now. It feels so good to make someone else feel good.

Connor goes shock-still when he’s finished, knees pressing into Hank’s ribs sharply. Hank wheezes, pulling himself away from Connor, chest heaving.

“That was…wow.” Connor muses, rolling off of Hank carefully, turning around to study his partner below him. “It’s always like that for you? Coming?”

“Somethin’ like that,” Hank says, threading their fingers together, tugging Connor down for a dirty kiss. He’s startled at the lack of human element, that Connor doesn’t complain about smelling horrible, about tasting himself on Hank’s lips. It’s just one more part of him for Hank to get used to, and he will. “I’m gonna make sure, from here on out, that I make it as good as I can for you. I’m old and bitter, but as long as you want me, I’m yours.”

For some reason, that makes Connor teary eyed. Sentimental-ass android. He curls up in Hank’s arms and nuzzles into his warmth. Hank complains, or pretends to, but he’s going to have to admit it someday soon.

That he’s fallen hard, and for an android, no less.

 

//

 

_Epilogue_

_**November 5, 2038.** 11:21 P.M._

 

Connor’s become a regular face at the precinct. Hank is proud of him—of course he is. Connor’s worked his way here, just like everyone else.

He’s got his own desk. He’s faster than all the humans, here, too. His eyes occasionally wander over to his fellow androids standing against the wall, rank and file. They don’t have anyone who screamed, hemmed and hawed until they were treated _almost_ like a person.

But a storm is brewing. Hank and Connor can both tell.

They’re disturbed at home in the middle of the night. Hank is nursing a glass of scotch, Connor is perched on his lap while a Gears game plays in the background. Connor answers primly and properly, and they get set to head out quickly.

 _Deviant._ It’s the word of the day.

Hank shrugs. Connor himself is a deviant—or he probably is. He doesn’t care for the terminology and the schematics, as long as nobody tries to start shit with his favorite android. “Who cares?”

They’ve got cases to solve.

**Author's Note:**

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